


Rise

by WonderAvian



Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Death, Drug Use/Addiction, Gen, I don't know what I'm doing, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Loss, Mental Illness, Repitition, Suicide mentions, Swearing, Violence, and a lot of drudgery, dark themes, frustration with each other, like a lot of repitition, stupid lovable idiots, this is just one big chance to call Gordon an asshat
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 01:23:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8947618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WonderAvian/pseuds/WonderAvian
Summary: Poor! Tracy's AU originally belongs to akireyta, drdone and preludeinz on tumblr. I'm just borrowing the AU idea.The youngest member of the Tracy family struggles to deal with many secrets when his world turns on its head.





	

With respects to the wonderful writers drdone akireyta and preludeinz on tumblr I present my take on the Poor! Tracy’s AU, a kind of ‘what if?’ story that is separate to what they have already and are still writing between them.

xXx

Alan Tracy is late. Alan Tracy has made a mistake. Alan Tracy…

Alan Tracy doesn’t feel like he deserves his name.

Alan…

…

He tears around the corner, one hand clamped into a fist in his mouth to stop himself from screaming. He bites down on it, hard. The metallic taste of blood fills his mouth, but that is almost a complete normality for him right now.

The hood is pulled tight over his head, shielding his face from view. It’s not entirely that he is shy or because he wants to hide. He just doesn’t want anyone to have the misfortune of seeing him in this state. He looks a nightmare anyway.

With his eyes squeezed shut, the only reason why he doesn’t take a wrong turn or smash into anything is because he has done this so many times before it has become routine. He knows the way. He knows it like the scars that run over the back of his hands, and the ever fresh cuts that turn up on his wrists without his knowing.

His heart has made a permanent home inside not only his throat but his head as well, as if it has been sliced in two. He can feel it beating against his skin, the inside of his skull. The insane feeling only adds to the horror of it all.

His brothers will be out right now. They always are. Which means his Gran is home alone. How could he forget? He is supposed to know this. It’s supposed to be drilled into his brain. He is not supposed to leave until one of them gets home. He shouldn’t have left his Gran on her own, but he did it anyway. He had run out. He had needed _it_ too bad. He had to get out.

He nears the apartment, and he slows down to a pained shuffle. To anyone else it would odd or even alarming, but there is no-one on the street to see him. Even if there were, they likely wouldn’t care.

He is walking almost normally now. He steps up, opens the door, and makes the way to the small apartment his too-large family shares.

The stairs creak beneath his feet, as if threatening to break, send him to his death. The thing is though, he would find himself welcoming it.

All too soon, he finds himself in front of the apartment door. He takes a deep breath, and turns the lock.

Oddly enough, the door makes no sound, and it’s such a contrast to everything else in this wretched city that never sleeps it is welcome relief. He quietly steps over the threshold into this hellhole of a house, the one that he had loved in for all the life he remembers living.

They had loved somewhere else, once. They had been happy there, or so he had been told. He shakes his head. It’s not like he remembers it anyway. It’s not like he deigns too care. Dwelling on the past can be too much. And it never makes things better. All it does is make the hurt _worse._

He needs it _now._

First things first though. He goes to check on his Gran. He enters the tiny living room, tentatively.

His Gran is sleeping in an armchair by the wall. Her brow is furrowed with a constant headache and her form is curled up from the pain that plagues her every breath.

He lifts a blanket over her, and makes sure her pills and a glass of water are on the table for when she wakes up.

He goes to the kitchen, opens the cupboard, takes out a band aid and sticks it over the bite-marks in his hand. He notices fervently that they are running out again.

Done with that, he slowly walks to his room, simultaneously dreading and looking forward to what comes next. He starts off at what is almost a crawl, but proceeds to get faster and faster, until he is almost hurtling along the short corridors that lead to his personal hiding place.

He used to share the room with Gran, but she had offered to sleep in the tiny living room so he could have the room to himself. He had, of course, protested, saying that she couldn’t possibly do that in her condition. She was sick.

They all were.

His brothers had also protested against the idea.

But she had insisted. They let it go.

And while he had protested and argued along with them, he had done so lightly. Some selfish part of him wanted to be alone. To have that feeling of true isolation where he could do _it_ in peace, away from scrutinizing eyes.

He opens the door and steps inside.

This room used to be vibrant. Except now the walls are dark. They take in light and happiness and give nothing in return. It’s as if – no, it is – a void. It sucks life in, and all that remains in the musty smell of death and abandonment.

He feels like he brought this upon himself.

Or maybe, just maybe, they are other factors that played a hand in it. Other forces lead him to his present situation. They’re poor enough as it is. He knows his brothers are trying their best.

But their best isn’t good enough.

His brothers. His friends. His not-so-friends. His father’s disappearance. The death of his mother, who he doesn’t even remember at all. The hands of fate, or even God himself, if there is a God.

What had he and his family done to deserve this? Why does the universe hate them so much? He had learned it was better not to question it.

He knows life isn’t fair. People really need to stop telling him that. He’s heard it enough times for it to become a constant, unwanted mantra in his head.

Everything in his room betrays a feeling of hate; hate for himself, hate for those who look down on his family and hate for the life the universe has put him in. He hates it, with all his being, and it feels as if it’s weighing him down, holding him to the spot of his eternal misery.

Even his eyes. His eyes are dark; they hold no emotion, no sign of recognition or acknowledgement. He has done this to himself, turned himself into a husk of his former being.

He isn’t worth anything, he is a burden on others, just another broken cog in a machine that has long been turned off at the source.

He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about anything anymore.

Except, the guilt still remains. It’s always there, always been there, waiting for him let down his guard for even a second. Then, it hits him with all the force of a freight train, threatening to crush him, and if he’s not ready…

It will tear him in half.

That’s why, he tells himself, and he _keeps, telling_ himself, that’s why he does this. That’s why he shuts himself up in the void of his room, refusing to go outside, refusing to see his family, refusing to even see the light of day.

That’s why, he tells himself, that’s why he does this awful drug. This awful, but oh so kind drug that he has become all too used to taking. This, dangerously beautiful, mind-numbing drug that takes all the feelings away, drowns out the voices in his head allows him to stop _thinking,_ even for a moment, even though it is much longer than that. Let’s him feel nothing for a while.

He takes the morphine. It’s always a set amount, not a milligram over the limit. It’s controlled. It tickles his nose, almost stinging him, but he’s become so accustomed to it he isn’t bothered by it anymore. Besides, the pros outweigh the cons. He lies down on his bed, facing the wall. He stares into the void of the walls.

He closes his eyes. Later, when the morphine has worn off, he’ll take the pills that will help him with withdrawal, so he can keep sane just until the next dose.

He’s even managed to convince himself he is not an addict.

His brothers don’t know. They would kill him, so to speak. And his Gran? He couldn’t even think about it if she were to find out. She would be so disappointed in him.

But. If it helps get rid of the voices in his head.

_You will never be worth fucking shit!_

Well. He’d take their disappointment, as long as he could keep taking the drug.

Admittedly, he had considered committing suicide more than once. But then, if he did, who would look after Gran? What would become of his brothers? Could they go on without him? Some part of him knew that they still love him, even though they are often angry or exasperated with him when he runs away or answers back.

He hates it, but he wouldn’t deny that he was an angry young man. Having to listen to his older brothers’ bullshit over and over again makes him want to hit something. And he does that. He does that, every time after they lecture him, behind their backs. Hitting, kicking and screaming.

He’s living for them. They’re the reason why he keeps struggling on. They mean well, don’t they? They could at least be nicer about it.

_Have you done your homework, Alan? You need to study, Alan._

_Turn the bloody game off or so help me, Alan!_

_For Christ’s sake, what are we going to do with you? You can’t keep running off like this! It’s selfish of you. Don’t talk back, Alan. Don’t yell at me Alan. Alan! For Pete’s sake!_

_Grow up!_

They kept reprimanding him for the things that helped him get by, the rituals that prevented him from going truly insane. And then they would tell him off for trying to defend himself against their onslaught. But then of course, there was certain things he was choosing not to do. But still.

_It hurt._

Even Gordon. Gordon, his immediate older brother, a paramedic, the once-joker of the family. His best friend. Gordon is the one who has the razor sharp wit, and a one-liner on his lips. The one who is even quicker than the eldest to dish out justice when he thinks it is needed.

He would go to Gordon, tell him everything.

Except.

Gordon is a hypocrite. Gordon is the one who steals pills from the place he works out for their Gran. Gordon is the one who threatens to put a leash on him. Gordon is the one who yells at him for running away. Gordon is the worst of all of them.

Perhaps that’s why he pushed him away, too. Just like everyone else.

Virgil, a fireman. Always there if you need him. Strong, but silent. Until he needs to talk to you. Or get _you_ to talk. He’s the emotional caretaker, but sometimes it feels like he getting in the way too much.

_I’m okay, Virgil. It’s no big deal. I’m fine._

John, an operator on the end of the emergency hotline, is both such a listener and a talker, it’s practically his job description. He’s smart, almost unbearably so sometimes, and he’ll either trick you into telling you your problems or will tell exactly where to go and what to do. He means well by it though.

_John, stop it. You don’t have to work this out for me. I’ve got it._

Scott is a cop. He both follows the law himself to a tee and lays down the law on everyone else. He is the smother brother, he always has to know when something is wrong. He is there, always, constantly, there.

 _Scott,_ please. _I can do this on my own._ Stop _worrying._

And of course, Gordon.

_Go away, Gordon!_

_I’m not a kid!_

He doesn’t hate them. He doesn’t hate Virgil, nor John, nor Scott, not even Gordon, the asshat. After all.

They love him.

Or at least, that is what he tries to believe. That his brothers still love him. And it’s hard to keep believing it when the voices in his head tell him otherwise. That’s why he needs the drug to make things better.

But then. The drug makes things so much worse.

Catch-22.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. He fumbles for it and holds it out thirty centimetres away from his face so the sudden influx of light doesn’t blind him. He stares at with blank, unfeeling eyes.

It’s a text from his boss. He’s needed at the track.

He turns over and screams incoherently into his pillow.


End file.
